All Tomorrow's Parties
by elodie
Summary: She created a whole new life, a life full of champagne and aged silk and anonymous meetings in the most impersonal places. She wasn't living, she was dying. Songfic of sorts. RogueLogan


Ok, I will warn you that this is very dark and ANGSTY. It's rated M for a reason. _All Tomorrow's Parties_ belongs to the Velvet Underground. It's a fabulous song. You should listen to it. This takes place many years after X2. X3 never happened, Rogue isn't cured.

* * *

All Tomorrow's Parties

_And what costume shall the poor girl wear  
To all tomorrow's parties  
A hand-me-down dress from who knows where  
To all tomorrow's parties_

The clink of champagne glasses, polite laughs, shameless flirting, glamorous dresses, sparkling jewelry – that was what first attracted her. The dance of first meeting, never revealing too much about herself, the traditions and eccentricities of the crowd, the bubbly that made her muscles loose in a man's arms. Yeah, she liked that. 

It was an escape from where she came from, a whole different world. It wasn't small town Mississippi or desolate Canada or the comfort of Westchester. No, it was New York City society, high society in fact. She'd dazzle all the men, make the girls jealous, then disappear like Cinderella, only she was careful enough never to leave a clue behind.

She had no money. She made her money washing dishes by day, or selling newspapers, or shoveling snow. Once a year, she sold her hair. Sometimes she was paid for her...services. She lived in a tiny apartment in a not so nice part of town, far, far away from the Upper East Side. The wallpaper was faded and peeling, and most of the fixtures were from the 1950's, but it came with a deep claw-footed bathtub, and she fell in love.

Even though she had no money, she wore a different dress every night. She scoured thrift stores and pawn shops and vintage stores, always finding the right fit on her slim frame. Some nights she wore silk dresses from the 20's, the color of parchment with fringe and tassels. Other nights she wore stately dresses from the 40's, short, but not too short, usually black. She saved her special stockings for the nights she wore those dresses, the stocking with the thick seam that traced down the back of her legs, over the delicate swell of her lithe calf. Other nights, she played at being Audrey Hepburn, or Edie Sedgwick, or even Nico on her worst nights. She took their bad habits along with her.

She had a taste for fine wine, fine food and fine men, in that order. They never came home with her, she never went home with them. Not that she never played with them, she did that all the time. She was the girl in the hotel room, thighs open, take me stockings and all! She was the girl in the bathroom stall, not a dirty bathroom either, but one with marble counter tops and shining silver faucets and lighting that would make an old hag look stunning. She was the girl in the car on the outskirts of town, bouncing in the lap of whichever man was too embarrassed to do it at the party, where his parents and his girlfriend waited for him, wondering where he could have taken off to. She didn't bother letting him move, she took him in the drivers seat, her back often pressing on the horn loudly. She was the girl in the swimming pool, the shower, the laundry room, the park after the sun set. They didn't know her name, she didn't know theirs.

She never kissed them, any of them. They tried, but she'd put a gloved finger up to their lips and shake her head firmly, guiding their heads to her scarf-covered neck. She smoked dainty cigarettes afterwards. They never knew what kind, she kept them in a silver cigarette box, but she smelled of tobacco and faint vanilla. She'd give them a drag if she liked them, and then she'd leave. They sometimes asked her for her number, but usually they didn't. They could tell from her hunger and her detachment that she wasn't a girl to call. She'd call a cab, sometimes they'd give her money for it, they usually didn't.

And every night she'd fill up her deep bathtub and cry and cry, and scrub her body to get the feel of their fingers and lips off of her skin. They never touched her bare skin, she was careful. But she felt it through the silk, and that was enough. She felt the heat of their breath, the moisture of their mouthes, the too-long fingernails, and the rough skin, rough fingers, rough enough to leave bruises on her hips and ass. Those were just the men she searched out.

_And where will she go and what shall she do_  
_When midnight comes around_  
_She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown_  
_And cry behind the door_

And then in the morning she would go to Fifth Avenue and stare at all the fine jewelry, and touch the new silk, not the crisp old silk of years past, moth eaten and yellowed. It was soft and smooth and luxurious. She bought nothing. She tried on shoes, shoes that fit her perfectly, Manolos especially, shoes that made her legs look like they went on forever. She'd try on gowns, satin, silk, never polyester or cotton, only the finest for her. She'd try on velvet jackets, and fur stoles, and feathered hats.

But she bought nothing.

She wore her thirty year old shoes with tentative pride, hoping that in thirty years she'd find some of the shoes and the gowns in consignment shops.

_Why silks and linens of yesterday's gowns_  
_To all tomorrow's parties_

She left Rogue behind. She left Marie behind too. Instead she simply became another surname in the landlord's book. Weren't many D'Ancantos around, and she never worked long enough in one place to get attached and reveal her identity. The people she worked for called her lady, miss, or simply 'hey you'. She liked that one the best. It was the least personal, exactly what she was looking for.

She'd never let herself get close again.

Her true love had always been people. She craved people, craved attention, laughter, happiness, camaraderie. But he ruined that. It destroyed her. She left and never turned back. Never even thought about turning back. She set her mind on a dream and lived it, doing everything she could to forget him. She never would forget him, forget the touch of his rough fingers, sometimes they left bruises, sometimes they were so gentle they made her cry. She wouldn't forget his lovely green eyes, or the way they'd looked at her, with such love and understanding that he'd never shown anyone. She wouldn't forget his flannel, his lack of sophistication, his inability – no, unwillingness to lie. She wouldn't forget his memories, his dreams, his nightmares, the feeling of metal slicing through her delicate lungs, the feeling of blood in her throat.

She had loved him. Past tense. Permanently past tense.

She dressed that night in a cream silk figure-hugging dress. It hugged every curve sinfully tight, ending just at her knees, a narrow opening that left little room for her legs to move, and a lot of room for her hips to move as she walked. She wore flesh-colored stockings, the outfit screamed for garters, but that wouldn't be of any use. Her hair was short, having only been shorn to be sold a month before. She'd curled it, parting it so that platinum streak framed the left side of her face. She wore red lipstick and enough mascara to make her lashes look endless.

She'd been flooded by memories of him today. She needed someone utterly rough and brutal, someone to take away the feeling of his gentle fingers on her silk-covered body, someone who'd choke her as she came.

He came to her at the bar, an attractive man, mid-30's, probably had a wife and 2.5 kids at home, but tonight he was hers. There was a rough glint in his eye, she recognized it at once. The way he handled the small talk, he was in control, the dominant. He was forceful, resting a hand on the small of her back, her fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the silk.

After an hour and several glasses of Pinot Noir, she found herself face down on his hotel bed, her shoe-clad feet barely staying on the floor with the ferocity of his thrusts. One of his hands pulled her hair back so that she had to arch her back to keep the pain in her scalp a minimum. She had red hand prints on her ass and a stinging fat lip. This is what she wanted. This is what she had to do to forget him. And in that half hour she spent in his room (as they'd wasted no time on foreplay) she forgot him.

With a grunt, he finished, releasing his hold on her throat. There would be bruises there tomorrow. Well, that was one of the reasons she wore the scarves. As soon as he pulled out, she pulled her dress back down from around her waist, and straightened her hair, nonchalantly going through her purse and reapplying her lipstick. Her silver cigarette case glinted in the bright lighting of the room as she pulled out a dainty cigarette and lit it with her Zippo lighter. She didn't offer him a drag, he simply took it from her and treated himself to one.

She left his room, rubbing at the spot on her ass he had just pinched – hard. She hurried over to the elevator, an arm stuck between the doors to hold it for her.

"Thanks," she said, sliding into the mirrored box.

In the mirrors, she could see what hell she looked like. Bruises forming everywhere, a little bit of crusted blood under her lips, rips in her stockings.

The cab driver didn't bat an eye at her injuries. He'd been driving cabs for years, he'd seen everything, she knew it. Not many people in this city batted an eye when she came home covered in bruises. No one in the shadows, no one in the dazzling lights, no tourist staring up at the skyscrapers with wonder, no heiress debutantes shopping for lingerie with their daddies' credit cards. It was completely anonymous. No one cared. She needed to look after herself, as there was no one there to protect her anymore.

"Damn it," she muttered. Now he was on her mind again. She'd also never forgotten his promise, although he apparently had, considering he never came to look for her. It didn't matter either way to her, she'd never have gone back with him, but at least it proved her reasons for leaving right.

Her apartment was too warm, her one window allowing no cross-ventilation, and the air conditioner had broken the month before. She stripped out of her dress, throwing it in the pile of dresses to take back to consignment shops, another means of income to fuel her lifestyle. She filled the tea kettle with water and placed it on the burner, turning it up to high. She needed something to bring her down.

She looked down at herself. She always saved the rough ones for the last week of her cycle, giving her body time to heal so she wouldn't raise any questions. They probably wouldn't care, either that or they wouldn't notice, but she didn't need anyone getting involved. They would figure that she was using them to forget about her batterer. And she was, to an extent. Each man helped her forget about the man preceding him. And all of the men helped her forget about the first man.

She shook her head. _No_, she couldn't think about him. It's hard to forget about the man who took her virginity, not necessarily her innocence. Eric had taken that the night he gave her his memories of carting the dead bodies of his people to giant crematories, of being experimented on by brutal men in clean white coats, speaking a harsh language that he couldn't understand. Even Logan's dreams of pain and torture couldn't compare to seeing the faces of people from Eric's neighborhood, pale and dead, reeking of human waste from the death panic, and of lingering fear, bloody from the claws of those who were more alive than they, struggling to get to the top of the pile before they suffocated from something other than the gas pouring into the chamber.

No, her innocence had been long gone by the time her maidenhead was breached.

At age 24, she was old.

She'd been with more men than most women _meet_, let alone fuck, in their lifetime.

She didn't think of herself as a whore. She didn't do it for sex, she did it for other reasons. Men called her a whore anyway, and she didn't correct them. She often chose men who would be turned on by submission.

Off came the ruined stockings, into the trash with those. The shoes she set in her shoe corner, the innocent pearls she gingerly laid in her jewelry box, the scarf she folded and tucked into a drawer in her dresser. She slipped into a cream silk slip and accompanying cream silk robe.

_And what will she do with Thursday's rags When Monday comes around_  
_She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown_  
_And cry behind the door_

She picked out a record, Nico's 'Chelsea Girl', and placed it on her turntable, gently setting the needle into the grooves. Call her old-fashioned, but records were cheaper than CDs these days. Nico's deep alto voice usually soothed her, and she needed soothing tonight. In fact, she was just about to draw a hot bath when there came a knock at the door.

She stared at the door in paralyzed shock. Who would be here? She didn't know anyone who knew where she lived, and it was too late for the landlord to be here.

Creeping over to the door, she stood on tiptoes to peer through the peephole. _It was him_. She figured it would be. Who else would come after her? Too bad it had been six months too late.

She slowly unlocked the door, unlocking each of the three locks, and slid the deadbolt over, before opening the door.

"Hey kid," he said softly.

She shook her head, "No, no, _no_. Why did you come? How did you-"

"Well hello to you too."

Oh no, there was his easy grin. She wasn't grinning. "I left for a reason. And that reason was you. And you _knew_ that. Obviously I don't want to be around you anymore."

"I want to talk to you," he moved to come in, but she slammed the door, almost making it before he stuck a foot through the doorway.

"Do you _mind_?"

"Marie-"

"_Don't call me that_," she hissed. "I'm not Marie anymore. Or Rogue."

"Well what do you call yourself then?"

"I-I don't call myself anything anymore."

He looked surprised, one eye brow rising a little higher than the other. "What do your friends call you?"

Tears burned at her eyes. _No_, she can't cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of _anyone_. Show no weakness. "I don't have any friends."

"Don't lie to me, I smell people all over you."

"I didn't say I don't see people, I just don't have friends."

The tea kettle began to whistle and she hurried over to take it off the burner.

"Mind if I come in?"

"Yes," she answered swiftly, but he was already closing the door behind him. She sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Want any tea?"

"I hate tea."

"I know," she said softly. "You used to drink it with me." She stared at him with calculating eyes, still having no idea why he was here.

He snorted, leaning up against the counter. "I did it for you."

She rolled her eyes, pulling a teapot, two cups and two saucers out of the cupboard. "Have any preference? Chai, Earl Gray, green, oolong, Nilgiri?"she asked while pouring the steaming water into the teapot.

"Oolong," he said with a smirk.

She nodded and pulled a tea infuser out of the drawer. Selecting a cannister of loose tea leaves, she filled it halfway and dropped it in the teapot.

An awkward silence filled the room. She drummed her fingernails against the hard counter top as he looked around at her place.

"I like this place," he said, breaking the silence.

"Why?"

"It smells like you. Just you."

She cursed herself as she blushed. "Well, I've been the only person in here for the last six months."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His eyes drifted over to the milk crates filled with records. "Mind if I look?"

She shook her head, pulling the chain hanging out of the teapot, pulling the infuser out. She poured two cups full of the bitter, aromatic tea.

"'Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison'?" He looked up at her with a grin. "Guess you didn't forget about me after all.

"Oh hush, I'd like Johnny Cash even if it wasn't for you," she said as she handed him his tea.

"What's playing now?"

"Nico."

"Who's he?"

She shrugged, sipping her tea delicately. "_She's_ a singer. She was on the first Velvet Underground album, worked with John Cale a lot. Fucked Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, and Alain Delon, among others. Y'know, she was in 'La Dolce Vita'." She cringed slightly at the look of loss on his face. "Fellini?" she tried.

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Sorry darlin', I'm not too well-versed about that era."

She paused a moment, thinking. Setting her tea down, she pulled the needle off the Nico record and put it back in its sleeve. She began rifling through the milk crates.

"What are you looking for?"

"You'll see. Ah, here it is."

"What is it?"

"You'll see."

Raw music filled the room. She turned the volume knob a bit, so as not to disturb her neighbors. She watched his face as he listened to it, smiling when his eyes showed approval.

"It's Iggy and the Stooges," she offered. "'Raw Power'."

_For Thursday's child is Sunday's clown_  
_For whom none will go mourning_  
_A blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gown_

He nodded, a dangerous smirk on his lips. "So you seem like you're getting on OK."

She hesitated. "Yeah," she forced out, trying to smile. "I'm doing OK."

"You have a hell of a sex life."

"What?" she said angrily. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"That pile of clothes," he jerked his thumb toward her pile of dresses on the floor. "Reek of sex. Plenty of different smells too. Jeez, how many men have you fucked?"

"It's none of your goddamn business."

"Jesus, I smell at least ten different guys in there." He crawled over to the pile on his knees, sifting through the dresses. "Christ Marie-"

She stomped over to him, looking down at him in fury. "Have you been following me?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"You know I never lie to you." Her face fell, and she nodded. "Marie, what happened to you?"

"_Don't_-"

"No, listen to me. You're covered in bruises, you're lonely, you've been fucking any guy that walks."

"No, now you listen to _me_. What I do is my business. And for your information, I've learned from my past mistake and have been very selective about the men I fuck."

He growled at the blow. "Jesus Marie. What, you like getting beaten up? Does that _turn you on_?" He stood up, towering over her. His gloved hand reached up to her chin and tilted her head back. He ran his thumb over her split lip. "This is fresh. Can't be more than an hour old."

"It isn't."

"Jesus-"

"What, never heard of rough sex, tough guy?"

"This isn't rough, this is brutal."

"So what if I like it brutal?"

He blinked, shaking his head and stepping backwards. "I don't know what happened to the Marie I know. The Marie I know wasn't this bitter."

"You know why I'm a bitter old hag now? Huh Logan? It's because of you. Because I just wasn't enough for you. Every time you left, you'd be fucking some bar slut or some hooker in every town you "fought" in. Well how do I know that you actually fought and didn't just spend the night in bed with some whore? And you can't tell me that it isn't true. I got your memories one day, you know that. You touched me and I got everything. I knew everything you'd done, everything you'd felt. I was just a replacement for Jean, along with all the other girls. Well guess what Logan, she died seven years ago. And you still dream about making love to her. Not just fucking her, not like you were fucking me, _making love_." She was crying now, hating herself for it. "She never loved you!"

"Shut up!"

"What? Didn't know that? It was pretty obvious when she married _Scott_, not you. It was pretty obvious that she was _making love_ to him at night, that she trusted him. She didn't trust you, she didn't love you. Just like you didn't trust me and you didn't love me. Well you know what? Jean was a better person than you, because last time I checked, up until six months ago you were fucking me, and you've never trusted me."

"Marie-"

"Why did you come here?"

"I needed to see you."

"Why?"

"I missed you."

"That's it?"

"I still love you."

She began to laugh, a bitter, awful laugh. "What? You've got to be fucking kidding me! You never loved me. I loved you, and all you did was shove me away."

"You're delusional." He grabbed her shoulders and held her at arms length roughly. "I've always loved you. I still do. I've always trusted you. _I still do_. I fucked up. I was an idiot to shove you away, yes, but just because I'm a stupid ass who makes horrible decisions doesn't mean that I didn't love or trust you."

"Some way of showing it."

"Well what about you? What, trying to forget me? Trying to forget the good times? I made love to you, Marie. You might not remember, but I remember. I remember vividly. You can touch me if you want! Go on, touch me. See what I mean."

"No, with the way I'm feeling right now, I don't know if I could let go." Her voice was so cold; a bitter low drawl.

"You'd kill me? Just like that?"

"Yes."

He let go of her with a sound of disgust. "Jesus kid, what have you become?"

"_You_."

"What?" he growled.

"I've done everything you did. I smoke, I drink, I fuck strangers who don't know my name, then I go home where no one knows me and spend a lot of time by myself thinking, getting as drunk as it takes to make me forget. I have nightmares every night, waking up at 3 AM on the nose usually. I drink a beer, listen to the radio some, then I go back to sleep. Just like you."

He was silent, staring at her helplessly. "Did you ever miss me?"

"No."

"I can smell a lie. You can't fool me, Marie."

She growled and threw a teacup at him, just barely missing his head. The shatter of the porcelain against the peeling wallpaper was masked by her screams. "Of course I fucking missed you! I was in love with you, you stupid, fucking -argh!" She flew at him and began to beat at his chest, not anywhere strong enough to do any damage, not that any damage would last long. All her energy spent, she collapsed to the floor, shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

_Of rags and silks, a costume_  
_Fit for one who sits and cries_  
_For all tomorrow's parties_

Logan kneeled next to her, a hand on her back, rubbing it like he always used to, his rough, big hands stretching out across her back, moving in circles, trying to make the muscles relax. "Marie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

She said nothing, her mouth open in a silent wail, her shoulders shaking violently.

"Kid, c'mere." He pulled her into his arms, holding her to him tightly. He kissed the top of her head and smoothed her hair. "Cry it out, it's OK darlin'."

"It's just," She choked out. "_Not fair_."

"It's not, kid." He hugged her tighter. "Not for you." He sighed into her hair, and whispered in her ear, "I want to make it fair."

"How?"

"I want to make everything right."

"_How?_"

"I don't know. Tell me how I can make it right."

She pulled out of his embrace and bit her lip. She hesitated. "Kiss me."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely, kiss me." She was sure now.

Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheer cream scarf. "You left this behind. I hoped I'd get to use it again someday." He draped the fabric over her face and kissed her gently. There was no roughness, no brutality, just love, genuine love.

"I haven't been kissed in six months," she said breathlessly.

"You never kissed any of them."

"I wouldn't let them. It's too intimate."

He kissed her again, deeper this time. He felt so familiar and warm, she felt like she would cry again. He smelled like pine and cigars and the warm smell of the mansion. He smelled like leather and clean laundry. She began to stand, her lips still against his and pulled him towards her bedroom, urgently, full of need and want and memories.

She lay down on her quilt, staring up at him with wide open eyes. "Logan, I need you to make love to me. I need to remember."

"I love you, kid. Always have. I should have said it more often, but I always figured you knew."

"I was stupid-"

"No, you weren't."

"Yes, I-" He silenced her with his mouth. She lost herself in the swirl of silk and sweet tea-flavored saliva. His lips were so gentle, but strong at the same time. Dominant, but not brutal. His hands fumbled with the belt on her robe, and he pulled it open.

"God, you're beautiful."

"I haven't heard that in six months."

He didn't answer, but instead helped her undress, until the robe and slip lay on the floor forgotten. He pulled the silk scarf from her mouth and laid it across her neck, kissing and sucking, trying to will the bruises away. He moved lower, across her collarbone, down her breastbone, and to each of her breasts, sucking softly, nibbling in the way he knew would make her gasp.

"Darlin', I want to make you feel good tonight."

She looked at him with those big brown eyes, her lip quivering with pent up emotion. All she could stammer out was, "Please."

Parties and dresses forgotten, she willed all her troubles away with the touch of this man. The man who had driven her to Hell, and then cared so much that he went into the depths to rescue her. He was the Orpheus to her Euridice.

As their bodies connected, she traveled back in her mind to when she was innocent Marie, a little rogue in the world, who had met a hardened man, a wolf who didn't like to care. And in this glorious moment, she felt like she was Marie again.

The morning would come, and they were wrapped in each others arms. Logan's belt buckle dug into her thigh, but she didn't care. She smiled and reached to smooth his hair out of his face. His eyes opened, beautiful green eyes, and searched out hers.

"You're awake."

"So are you."

"Logan, will you take me home?"

"Of course I will."

"You promise?"

"I promise. Marie, will you trust me?"

"I do trust you."

"You promise?"

Marie smiled, a real true smile for the first time in six months. "I promise."


End file.
